


in the summer silence, i was getting nowhere

by tokyonightskies



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game), Guild Wars Series (Video Games)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Camping, Canon-Typical Violence, Crying, Dacryphilia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ex-Nightmare Courtier, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Gentle Kissing, Gentle Sex, Guild Wars 2: Heart of Thorns, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Kissing, Lap Sex, M/M, Maguuma Jungle, Mental Breakdown, Mind Manipulation, Monsters, Nightmare Courtier, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Self Confidence, Self Confidence Issues, Sleep Deprivation, Sleeping Together, Speech Disorders, Stuttering, Sylvari (Guild Wars), Tent Sex, Verdant Brink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 08:27:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18587500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokyonightskies/pseuds/tokyonightskies
Summary: It's peaceful at the makeshift camp. The Pact made good use of the terrain's steep cliffs to set up a defensible position and barricaded the exit to the grotto with further fortifications. Afritan and Moldark reached the encampment sometime in the afternoon, when the worst of the heat already passed.They cleaned up with rag and bucket, scrubbing away the sweat, blood and dirt of a day's travel.Moldark met up with an old acquaintance from his Vigil days--a tall, blue sylvari ranger named Tatule whose smile reminds Afritan of sharks in bloody waters--and traded a few favors so they could have a tent for a whole night. The thief accompanying Tatule, a bright-eyed sylvari with flowers growing through the branches of his hair, shot them a salacious wink.--a sylvari guardian and a sylvari warrior stumble from pact camp to pact camp in verdant brink; in between the hostile wildlife, the perilous terrain and the mordrem assault, the sylvari guardian tries to deal with the dragon's call. with varying degrees of success.





	in the summer silence, i was getting nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is testament that i like to make my own characters cry. in a roundabout way. since this is almost 6000 words long. 
> 
> some background information on the two main characters: afritan is my own sylvari guardian, a priory magister who specializes in cartography and has a minor speech disorder. he's susceptible to mordremoth's call. moldark is my dear guild mate's sylvari warrior, an ex-courtier and vigil warmaster who has a surprising soft streak under all that stoicism and muscle. there are cameo's from npc's and characters from my other guild mates.
> 
> there is smut in here, somewhere, so if you want to dig right in, i suggest you skip the first 3000 words or so. i appreciate feedback--especially since this is my first time writing for this fandom!
> 
> anyway. 
> 
> sour, bby, bottom's up ;)

The birdsong of a toucan echoes throughout the canyon. It tapers off like an awkward laugh.

Verdant Brink isn't a hospitable place. Massive vines sprawl upwards from the abyss. Roots claw through rocky cliffside. Mordrem stalk downtrodden roads. Hostile wildlife, sweltering heat. Eyes seem to peer from the dark, expectant. One wrong step sends someone hurtling down the valley, off into the deep end. Verdant Brink is out for blood.

The haphazard thought that crossed Afritan's mind when they arrived from the Silverwastes rings true: _ This jungle twists everything _ .

Moldark buries the blade of his axe into the wyvern's skull. Blood spurts onto his chest piece and the fur around his neck. Afritan jabs the pommel of his greatsword into the beast's belly, where its scales are soft and weak, like an eggshell. It convulses; its wings broom-sweeping over the sandy underground. Moldark yanks his weapon out and hits home again, sinking the axe in deeper. Sparks of electricity fizzle into nothing. Dead.

They have four more hours until sunset.

The bluff they're standing on overlooks what-must-be the tailend of Creeping Crevasse. A wall of thick, lush vine blocks off the horizon. They have to take the path winding upwards to the jungle proper if they want to deliver the supplies to the center Pact encampment in time. The sunlight pin-pricking through the dense foliage overhead washes the scenery a warm, foggy orange.

Sweat tickles the nape of his neck, and Afritan irritably wipes at the collar of his coat with gloved fingertips, taking a few steps backwards, away from the wyvern's corpse. He scuffs the heel of his boot over loose gravel; sends the pebbles tumbling off the cliff. Afritan cautiously peers over the edge and takes a shuddery breath, hit by a sudden flash of vertigo.

There's  _ no bottom _ . Just thin wisps of mist and coils of root as far as the eye can see.

His stomach rolls over, a lazy lurch that has him tasting bile on the back of his tongue. He wants to  _ retch _ , but can't. Frozen on the spot. His hands are starting to tremble, harder than when he first undressed Moldark and touched his bare skin. Afritan gasps when Moldark grabs his wrist and tugs him away from the unfathomable depths, and Afritan careens into his side, shoulder to shoulder, thrown off-kilter.

“I'm afraid there's no time to admire the view,” followed by a pause. “Are you alright, Afritan?” Moldark asks softly, running the pad of his thumb along the inside of Afritan's wrist, over the sleeve.

He nods, wants to answer with something witty like: “I was just awestruck by the sight.” But he's never been a witty guy, can't manage his words right, a chronic case of  _ l'esprit d'escalier _ . All he manages to mutter is an unconvincing  _ yeah. _

The Pact soldiers they’re escorting catch up with them then, having stayed behind further down the track while they scouted ahead. Moldark squeezes Afritan’s wrist once, twice, and then lets go, rests his hand on the flat head of his axe. Afritan makes a sound at the back of his throat, a low whine.

Moldark shakes his head and admonishes in an amused tone, “We have to keep going.”

.

Nightfall is when the jungle's at its most dangerous.

Sleep is a precious commodity in Verdant Brink. Afritan knows because he’s been sleep-deprived ever since they’ve left Amber Sandfall behind them. The Elder Dragon’s call was much easier to ignore in the Silverwastes, nothing more than a caress at the back of his skull, but here, in the suffocating wild of the jungle, the call has mutated into something tangible, insistent.

When Afritan drifts off, his sleep is short-lived and dreamless. And more often than not he jolts awake too soon, fretful and disoriented, as if possessed, as if something sunk its claws deep into his belly and  _ pulled _ .

They are not welcome here, but the jungle wants them to stay. On its own terms.

When they arrived at the central camp, the Vigil forces stationed there were wrapping up preparations. They were ushered inside a tent immediately. With a bit of luck, the two of them could continue the journey inwards to the basin before the break of dawn, if the Mordrem attacks let up. Guard duty got assigned; they rest in rotation. Afritan volunteered for the longest stretch, lasting sometime deep into the night, with hopefully an hour or two to spare for sleep.

Mordremoth is loudest when Afritan has his eyes closed. Pressing promises like needles to the back of his eyelids.

Afritan thrashes around, kicking at his sleeping bag, hands clenching into angry fists, moaning as if in pain. He shakes his head, right cheek hard-pressed against the cold gravel. The call fills, reverberates like a wardrum inside him,  _ tugging and tugging _ , hooking open his ribs and stuffing his insides with  _ sound _ until all he can do is scream.

“--up! Please, wake up, wake  _ up _ …  _ Afritan _ !”

Strong hands shake him awake. He stumbles into a sitting position, bumping his forehead into the broad span of Moldark's chest-- Moldark, who's holding him secure by the shoulders, whose bright red glow is the only source of light inside the tent, aside from the flare of the campfires outside, spilling under the flaps like oil. Afritan swallows, but his throat is dry and raw, and his tongue scuffs awkwardly over his palate. He heaves a shuddering breath and burrows his face in the sharp bracket of Moldark's neck and shoulder, screwing his eyes shut.

Sweat tickles in between the thorny tangles of his hair, along his scalp. He winds his arms around Moldark's waist.

“Please don't let go,” Afritan rasps into the fur of Moldark’s collar, inhales the tang of spilt blood and sweat like a drowning man gasps for air. “Don't let go, don't let go,  _ don't let go. Please _ .” His voice breaks, and then something gives inside, and Afritan's sobbing, panicked, grasping two fistfuls of Moldark’s coat.

Moldark wraps his arms around Afritan's shoulders and pulls him in; tucks the barbed crown of Afritan’s head under his chin.

It's eerie quiet; no sound but their breathing, the soft rustle of fabric, Afritan's barely-audible sobs and whispered words--frantic like a by-the-bootstrap prayer. The wilderness outside lies dormant. A stark contrast with how things were around midnight, when the hours were pitching and heaving into a deeper, more stifling blackness, and the Pact encampment had to weather the brunt of the Mordrem assault. Flashes of gunfire slashing through the dark of night.

“I'm sorry,” Afritan murmurs eventually, voice sounding wet.

Tension bleeds from his posture, and he takes back some of his weight, drawing away so they're face to face. In the dim of the tent, Moldark's red glow reminds him of a rescue flare. Afritan wonders if he looks as bad as he feels, wrung-out and stupid tired from all the fighting and crying. He sniffles and lowers his gaze, chastised.

“Don't be,” Moldark says in a soft tone. He cups Afritan’s jaw then and thumbs at the sharp jut of his upper lip, watching him intently. The corner of his mouth turned up in a little lopsided smile.

His eyes remind Afritan of unearthed gemstones, especially in the dark, when it’s just the bright burn of his glow. Afritan’s always liked the difference between them. The way Moldark’s bare legs look when they bracket his hips, and Afritan can ease his hands from kneecap to hip--the sea-green of his skin pale against Moldark’s black, and his palms catch on the ridges and bumps of Moldark’s muscled thighs.

Shadows move across the canvas of the tent, big and bulky, a guard of Vigil soldiers marching past. Their footfalls are loud and heavy, in-sync.

“Would you like to try and get some more rest?” Moldark asks, mapping out the shape of Afritan's mouth with the pad of his thumb; from corner to corner, along the peach glow dotting the outline of Afritan's upper lip. It's soothing,  _ sensual. _ He tilts his head, eyes narrowed like a cat’s when petted, and says, “We still have some time before we head out.”

Afritan doesn't want to look away, but he does so instinctively; his gaze drops to his sword, discarded next to his sleeping bag, kept at arm’s length in case of an attack. The brass of the hilt faintly reflects the campfire glow from outside. He blinks slowly, feeling wave-breaks upon wave-breaks of exhaustion throughout his entire body, muscle-memorized, and he wonders how much further adrenalin can carry him before his body simply gives out, before this jungle manages to twist him too. He blinks again, but nothing changes.

It’s still dark.

From the corner of his eye, Afritan catches Moldark frowning at his lack of answers.

“Is it Mordremoth?” Moldark asks, and the question sinks into the silence like a stone. Afritan sucks his inner cheek between his teeth when Moldark guides his face back to his. There’s no disappointment in Moldark’s expression, as Afritan feared, just worry and concern. “Afritan, how many times have you woken up like this without--”

“ _ How do you do it? _ ” Afritan interrupts suddenly. “How, how do you ignore, no, how do you  _ stand  _ him. It.  _ The call. _ ”

Moldark tucks a strand of barbed hair behind Afritan's ear, his gaze flickering over Afritan's face, tracing the y-shape of his peach-colored glow from eyes to mouth to eyes again. “I can hear it too,” he confesses then, settling back on the ground. “And I tell it _no_. It doesn't like to be denied, but I'm quite skilled at telling people off when I want absolutely nothing to do with them.”

“I just…” Afritan pauses, reluctantly lets go of Moldark's coat and rests both hands in his lap. His eyes search Moldark's. “I wish I was strong, like,  _ like _ you are. And then, I c-can finally  _ stop _ being afraid, of falling asleep.” His voice breaks again.

He presses the heel of his palm to his cheek hard, head bowed, and takes a steadying breath. Afritan doesn't want Moldark to know how  _ pathetic _ he really is.

“Enough of that,” Moldark admonishes, kind but firm, and pries Afritan's fingers away, grabbing him by the wrist. “You are strong, Afritan, and you will  _ win _ this battle. And I will be there every step along the way,” he states with an air of finality. Leaning in, Moldark presses a kiss to the inside of Afritan's wrist--a gesture of affection Afritan's taught him, made him grow fond of.

More tears, a sound somewhere in between a scoff and a hiccup, bubbled up from deep down his chest. Afritan's smile is wobbly, but genuine.

“If there is an opportunity at the next camp, we will rest together,” Moldark promises in a hushed voice.

Someone raises the flap of their tent, and the spill of firelight  _ spreads _ to the foot-end of Afritan's sleeping bag, overruns his discarded backpack and weapons. The shadow of the Vigil soldier flickers crooked over soil. Moldark casts a glance over his shoulder--and Afritan shies away, hides behind the span of Moldark's shoulders. He doesn't want to be caught with tear tracks drying down his face.

“Warmaster Moldark,” the massive Charr salutes, the thud of his paw against his breastplate curt and loud. “Master-At-Arms Neary requests your presence before your departure.”

Moldark nods, turns away. His fingers retreat slowly over the back of Afritan's hand, lingering like the sea does the shoreline. The firelight curls around the edges of Moldark's profile, softens the furled strip of bark that's his nose and the sharp arrow of his cupid's bow. Pebbles grind under the shift of his knees. He stands upright, casting the full length of his shadow over Afritan.

“You should get ready,” he advises lowly, taking his gloves from the back pocket of his trousers and slipping them on one by one. Every ounce the courtier he once was. “I'll be waiting at the waypoint for you.” A pause.

And then gently, silken soft, “Take your time.”

.

A barrage of goey, soupy brown gunk splatters open against the barrier Afritan casted. Sanctuary flickers under the onslaught. Wisps of bright healing magic well up from the illuminated soil. The Mordrem Vile Trasher roars in anger, sluicing more gunk from its toothy maw, its giant green petals spreading open around its bright red eye like a lion's mane. Two, three Mordrem guards rush forwards from its flanks.

“You hold them off,” Moldark yells, eyes not leaving the large monstrous creature in front of them. “I'm going in for the big one.”

They're in a precarious spot; the ravine stretches long at their backs, the thin strip of bridge they used to get here too weak to carry a full-fledged fight, and the grotto's blocked off by Mordrem. Rot stacks up Afritan's nostrils. The jungle  _ reeks _ , pungent and overripe, sleek tendrils of wet green fanning the grotto's entrance like a curtain call.

Sanctuary's barrier cracks, a hairline fracture at first, and then shatters.

From his peripheral, Afritan catches Moldark leap into the fray. Axes drawn. His figure blurs into motion. Afritan summons three spectral blades; blinding white chains binding the Mordrem guard into place--and then he  _ pulls _ , hard, to knock them off their feet, drags them over, giving Moldark leeway. But a shrill shriek catches them both off guard. Afritan watches wide-eyed how a Mordrem Punisher comes racing through the grotto's yawning mouth on its hulking mount.

Towards Moldark.

The ledge is narrow.

If that  _ thing _ stampedes through, it could very well hurl Moldark off. Afritan can feel his heartbeat thumping behind his eyeballs, and he lunges forwards, Mordrem guard forgotten, but Moldark manages to dodge, rolling under the mount, onto his own back, and jabs one axe through the bark of the beast's belly and then a second, gutting it from chest to hind leg. Yellowish blood oozes from the wound, then comes gushing down.

The Mordrem Punisher's knocked off, skidding over gravel, landing at the foot of the Vile Trasher's tendril.

Moldark gets back on his feet. He's got to move fast, ride the momentum.

A sudden sound, like a bonecrack, a branch  _ snapping  _ underfoot, and Afritan whips around, wielding his greatsword like a shield; the sawteeth of his blade nipping through dry brushwood armor, blood-thirsty, and pus-yellow  _ sap _ spurts from the gash. The Mordrem tilts its head closer, bares its moss-grown teeth. Spit dripping from its fucked-up mouth. Afritan pushes back, angles his sword deeper, shifting his gaze from one guard to another to the one in front of him again, and then they  _ pounce _ . 

Adrenalin dictates his movements as he lobs the Mordrem's hand clean off, drawing a painful yowl from the guard's throat that makes his guts clench.

His eardrum strains and  _ splits _ as the dragon's call amplifies the sound in his head.

_ All things have a right to grow _ , Mordremoth sneers mockingly as Afritan hacks at the second guard that charges him. With more desperation than skill, he's loathe to admit. His heart's hammering away in his chest. He cleaves through the Mordrem's shoulder, again and again. Until the hardwood armor and wet bark-like skin underneath splits open, apart. Splinters whizzing past Afritan's face. The Mordrem makes this aborted movement with its paw, grasping, for Afritan's throat or its own. Afritan  _ doesn't know _ . Doesn't care.

And the dragon taunts gleefully,  _ the blossom is brother to the weed. _

Panic curdles in Afritan's stomach, like sour milk and twice as heavy. He staggers backwards,  _ away  _ from the dying Mordrem, and spins on his heel, swinging his blade blindly, hitting the third guard by a stroke of sheer  _ luck _ . The Mordrem chitters cruelly, the sound not unlike a scorpion's. Almost knocks the sword out of Afritan's hands. He fumbles, barely sidestepping an attack.

Behind him, the first guard approaches again, clutching the pitiful stump of its wrist between two claws, eyes gleaming predatory.

Afritan flexes his fingers around the hilt of his greatsword instinctively; his gaze flicks to Moldark at the far-end of the ledge.

Outnumbered two-to-one, but Moldark keeps fighting,  _ relentless _ , with cleansing bolts whisking around his body at every swing of the axe. Afritan can't see much, but he recognizes a losing battle. He glares back at the Mordrem ahead. He needs to get over to Moldark.  _ Fast _ . His breaths roll past his lips haggard; his lungs not letting up, set aflame, and he swallows curtly, the inside of his throat raw, scraped open.

Sweat prickles between his brows.

Then,  _ there _ , the Mordrem move, and he moves, crashing into them both with one fell leap, kicking up dust and desiccated twigs, and his sword  _ tears _ through wood with crooked teeth. Afritan lands on one knee, joints aching, panting hard, and he scrambles up, a hand brushing the ground briefly, running, rushing past the dying guards in a deadsprint, and careening into the Mordrem Punisher.

Moldark acknowledges him, a split-second glance over the shoulder, and then blocks an incoming attack from the Vile Trasher. Afritan slashes at the Mordrem's flank and flits past, so he's back to back with Moldark.  

“I'm through its defenses!” Moldark shouts at him, the sound of his voice distorted thanks to his erratic heartbeat, pounding away between his ears.

The green petals of the Vile Trasher glitter in the sunlight. Afritan casts another sigil of wrath; healing magic floods his exhausted body with an unnatural warmth, and all he needs is enough energy for one more push. The Mordrem Punisher pukes up more of that pus-yellow blood and grins at them. Moldark sinks into a defensive stance.

_ One more push _ , Afritan thinks woozy, off-balance. And he ignites his signet of judgement.

Screams startle a flock of birds into flight. The dense foliage of the treetops shuddering in the aftermath. Moldark pounces. His figure cloaked in smoke. The air _broils_ , and the Mordrem Punisher lurches forwards, arms outstretched, as if it's trying to carry the weight of holy fire on its back.

Afritan reacts out of instinct, not finesse, clashing with the creature once, twice, until it sinks to its knees, gurgling blood. Flames eating away its face.

The Vile Trasher falls next with a harrowing screech and a  _ thunk _ , oozing a foul-smelling sap from its trunk-sized tendril. Moldark stomps down on one wound--the monster's petals convulsing from pain-- and hacks away at its bright red eye. Stopping only when the muscles in his arms give out. He turns away, wipes at his mouth with the back of his arm. Slits the throats of the Mordrem, just to make sure they're dead.

“You look pale,” is the first thing Moldark says, slinging Afritan's arm around his shoulders when it looks his knees are buckling. “Are you hurt? It looks like you've lost a lot of blood.”

“Isn’t mine, the blood, not my blood,” Afritan mumbles tiredly. “Just dehydrated. Wha-- What about you? Are you?  _ Hurt _ ?”

“No, I'm not.”

There's a lapse of silence as Moldark maneuvers them over to where they discarded their backpacks. He carefully eases Afritan against the cliffside and uncaps a waterskin. Their provisions will last them another night, but Moldark's not keen on making camp in open space. Lord Faren's flyer crashed around here somewhere, the Vigil soldiers back at the central encampment ensured them, and the Pact fortified the position. They just need to get through the grotto.

“You're dirty,” Afritan mumbles softly, almost sleepdrunk. “We'll need to, I mean, it'd be nice if there was a way to bathe, wouldn't it?”

Moldark smiles in that handsome way of his, covered from head to toe in gore and viscera.

“Yes. It would be nice,” he agrees, sinking down on the ground next to him and looking up at the canopy overhead. Searching for Afritan's hand and linking their fingers together. “I could go for a shower right now.”

.

It's peaceful at the makeshift camp. The Pact made good use of the terrain's steep cliffs to set up a defensible position and barricaded the exit to the grotto with further fortifications. Afritan and Moldark reached the encampment sometime in the afternoon, when the worst of the heat already passed.

They cleaned up with rag and bucket, scrubbing away the sweat, blood and dirt of a day's travel.

Moldark met up with an old acquaintance from his Vigil days--a tall, blue sylvari ranger named Tatule whose smile reminds Afritan of sharks in bloody waters--and traded a few favors so they could have a tent for a whole night. The thief accompanying Tatule, a bright-eyed sylvari with flowers growing through the branches of his hair, shot them a salacious wink.

_ Don't do anything we wouldn’t do _ , the thief singsonged when Afritan and Moldark took their leave. Afritan caught the tailend of the ranger's remark, -- _ doesn't leave much they can't do, then. _

Far-removed from the campfires, their tent's dark and quiet; their two sleeping bags placed together so Moldark's nestled along the line of Afritan's body. Moldark never required much sleep to function properly, but when he can rest his face in the crook of Afritan's neck or have Afritan's arms wrapped around his waist, he doesn't mind hours of it, dozing happily in Afritan's warmth. Maybe this was his body's way of recuperating all those hours spent awake.

Afritan wishes he could sleep as easily. The dragon's not singling him out, not like in the fight, but the call remains. Like a worry he can't put behind him.

After what must've been at least two hours of unsuccessfully trying to fall asleep, Afritan carefully detangles his limbs from Moldark's and gets up. He needs to pace or polish his blade or  _ anything _ really, to shake off this restlessness. A hand snatches his ankle. He nearly jolts out of his own skin in surprise.

“I want you to tell me when you can't sleep,” Moldark whispers, settling upright on his knees, the red of his glow flaring like a cross in the dark. His fingers peel away the thin fabric of Afritan's breeches, touching more skin.

He shuffles closer, their sleeping bags crumpling under his weight, until he can nuzzle along the outline of Afritan's thigh, press his face against Afritan's groin, and he continues, “Maybe I should tire you out in a different way.”

How long since the last time they've fucked? Afritan can feel his cheeks heat up. His eyes prick with insomnia, and he blinks quickly a few times. Images of undressing Moldark in some seedy little tavern room in Divinity's Reach dance around his head. Moldark's breath is warm, the pressure  _ good _ . His cock twitches. Afritan covers his mouth with a hand, watching desperate, dilated pupils gobbling up the yellow of his irises, and with his other hand he caresses the sharp long tip of Moldark's ear.

Moldark doesn't break eye-contact when he mouths open and wet at the thick curl of Afritan's cock, pressed haplessly against his breeches.

“Let me take care of you,” He offers.

And then there's the scrape of teeth, the press of a tongue; the front of Afritan's breeches damp from spit. Moldark peels away the sweat-soaked fabric that's clinging to Afritan's skin like a seersucker with possessive fingers, exposing the knotted ridges of his hips. Afritan exhales shakily when his dick's freed from his pants. The air's heavy with leftover heat from the day. Moldark presses a kiss to the base of his cock, and something coils in his stomach, and the only thing Afritan hears is his own heartbeat, loud and impatient between his ears.

With heavy-lidded eyes, Moldark pushes those trousers down even more, until they bunch up around Afritan's knees, and then crooks a finger under the hem of his undershirt. His smile is lopsided,  _ eager _ . He shifts on his knees, presses his cheek to the inside of Afritan's right thigh, the glow of his face a soft red against his cock; the palm of his hand moving up and down the planes of Afritan's belly, lazy and slow.

His next words are murmured low, “I want to feel you, Afri. Won't you lie back down so I can feel you like I really want to?”

Afritan makes this involuntary sound, young and startled, and he peers around helplessly in the dark, mind working overtime, trying to figure out what they can use as lube. Because maybe this is what he needs. Moldark on top of him, taking his cock so deep, there's no more space between them, until he's spasming in orgasmic seizures, cumming into that slippery heat and every muscle inside his body finally gives out.

_ But he doesn't want to hurt Moldark _ . They need prep. He needs to work his fingers inside him first.

“I,  _ yes _ , yes, but do you have something we could use for…, well, lube,  _ anything that _ …” Afritan stammers, trails off when Moldark sucks on his cockhead, tonguing at the slit, a hand fisted around the shaft, and Afritan  _ doesn't _ know where to put his hands, ends up placing them awkwardly on Moldark's shoulders. Saliva alone isn't gonna cut it for a good fuck, but Afritan can't form another coherent thought anymore.

Just  _ more. More heat. More friction. More wet, sloppy drool and precum dribbling down the corners of that red red mouth. _

Moldark licks his lips, gives his dick a few more jerks. Off the cuff. Spit webbed between his mouth and the head of Afritan's cock. It wasn't a blowjob proper, an appetizer maybe, something to get his dick wet. Afritan wishes he could see the way Moldark's cock tents those light-colored breeches he wore to sleep.

“Take your shirt off,” Moldark says in a roughed-up voice. He swallows and smacks his lips. “I have some ointment we can use to make this  _ easier _ on us both.”

There's some fumbling around in the dark; the sound of Moldark moving, groping across the ground for his backpack, the soft noises of him searching through, and Afritan struggling to kick off his trousers, getting his tangle of thorns stuck on the collar of his undershirt. Too much at once. Afritan settles back down on the sleeping bags, cross-legger, the markings running over his body flickering with every nervous breath. Moldark hands him a small jar. His glow permeates the air with a gentle red.

The ointment is cool to the touch. Afritan rubs his fingers together, nice and sticky. His eyes slide over to Moldark, undressing.

When Moldark slips into his lap--knees folded around his waist, ankles crossed at his lower back, arms wrapped around his neck, Afritan shudders into a slow, sensuous kiss. There's no urgency, just the press of Moldark's hard cock against his abdomen.

His hands trail down Moldark's lower back, to his ass. Parting one cheek from the other. Lathers ointment from the cleft down to his balls. He pulls at the rim with one slippery fingertip. Moldark groans against his lips, and Afritan swallows the sound, sucks Moldark's tongue into his mouth. Slips one finger inside, to the knuckle. Moldark grinds down, hissing under his breath. Greedy too, like Afritan is for him.

They always want more from each other.

Afritan pushes in a second finger, starts to scissor his hole open with careful little movements. Never too much at once. Moldark lavishes his throat with kisses, with compliments. Whispers  _ dearheart _ in the junction of his shoulder before he bites down. His chest feels close to bursting. It's enough to make Afritan buck up, bump the tip of his dick against Moldark's balls, and  _ again _ . Again.

His fingers sink in deeper, and he fucks him a bit faster, to make sure Moldark can take him, take his cock like this. Moldark's rim seems to give against the stretch of his fingers.

“We can. Now,” Moldark says softly, unhooking one arm to grab at Afritan's cock, and then he lowers himself down, relishes the grind of every petal-like ridge on that cock as it slides in deeper. His voice hitches in his throat, an animal sound. “More, yes--” the 's’ elongated, capped off with a huff.

Moldark's gorgeous, blending in with the dark, head thrown back and back arched in a tight curl. So warm. So  _ right _ . Afritan thinks his heart can't contain all the love he feels for him at this moment; too overwhelmed with happiness. His throat closes up as Moldark bottoms out, hands planted firmly on the span of Afritan's shoulders. Sets a rhythm. Shifts his hips and rides him, long and slow, deep strokes.

“Look,” Moldark whispers. “At how good you fill me, Afritan. How good it  _ feels _ , how good it  _ aches _ .”

The squelching sounds and dull slaps of skin on skin try to chase out their moans and sighs, but they keep echoing in the confines of the tent. Moldark fucks him like he needs to be fucked.

And Afritan bows his forehead against Moldark's sternum and starts to cry.

Soundless at first, tears brimming over and sliding translucent over his peach-colored cheeks. Against Moldark's chest. Fingers wrap into his hair, direct his head up, chin dug in black bark, his eyes shining wet, Afritan mumbles something,  _ nothing _ , with a crooked smile. Moldark's gaze grows fond.

“H-happy, they're happy tears,” Afritan manages to say, warbled. Moldark nods once, a sheen of sweat appearing in the hollow of his throat, a shimmering red.

He touches their foreheads together. Afritan sighs, closes his teary eyes, places his palms on Moldark's ass and hefts him up, and lowers him back down on his slick cock. Moldark moans when Afritan angles him better. Fucks into him. He won't last much longer. They both won't. Afritan holds Moldark down, filling him, stuffed to the hilt, when his orgasm creeps up on him.

He feels hot cum splashing all over his belly. Moldark kisses him again, mapping out the hillside of his teeth.

Happiness and heat and  _ love _ wrapping around his chest like a vice. There's no room for an elder dragon when there’s only this  _ redwhite _ heat blanking out his senses. He tumbles over the edge. His balls clench, his toes curl, and his fingers flex, once, twice, involuntary. Moldark  _ keeps moving _ , hypersensitive, milks him for every drop, fingers caressing his scalp.

Afritan watches cum,  _ his cum, _ dribble down Moldark's thighs when he stands upright on wobbly legs. He feels weightless.

Everything's quiet, even his heartbeat’s quieting down between his ears. He's barely aware of Moldark mopping his belly clean with a rag. Shakily, he lowers himself on his back, supine. Accommodates Moldark between the thoughtless spread of his legs. The jar of ointment topples over onto the ground, forgotten. Sleep stalks him like a wave of fog rolling in over a lake, leisurely and inescapable.

“Rest,” Moldark says, nothing more than a murmur, accompanied by a few more kisses to his ear. His sweaty body slowly sticking to his.

Also inescapable.

.

Leaves dappled through with sunlight seesaw overhead. The noon heat is more bearable in the shade, and the curtained tents are drawn open only at one side, to let the faint breeze in. Afritan stands in front of an Itzel map, flanked by a couple of Whispers agents.

They are deciding on a strategy concerning a delivery of Pact supplies, but Afritan can barely concentrate, bent over the map with balled fists, steamrolling the curled edges.

“If we stay clear of the canopy and have the helicopters hovering at lower altitudes, I don't see why we  _ couldn't _ make the deadline the Lightbringer suggested,” one of the agents--a sylvari whose head's capped with a purple-dusted mushroom for hair-- explains in a professional tone, gesturing at the right intervals to emphasize his point.

His colleague, the most imposing Charr Afritan's ever seen, bristles at his words and mutters, “I  _ know  _ what we agreed on with Agueda.  _ I was there _ , Oprez.”

“Right, right! I didn't mean any disrespect of course, Lightbringer Qweorth. I was simply pointing out, from my perspective, the most time-efficient way to get the supplies from point A to--” Oprez continues, but the sentences blur together inside Afritan's head.

Mordremoth's call resounds like a shrill wind over the snowy hills in the Shiverpeaks. Deafened, Afritan blinks, rolls his shoulders back. It was foolish to assume one peaceful night would change anything, would ease the hot breath rushing from the dragon's nostrils against the back of his skull.  _ This jungle twists everything. _ He peers at the open plain of the valley, stretching out in front of the tent's opening like a lagune, evergreen.

“ _ I understand _ , and if it wasn't hostile territory, I'd actually agree with you.  _ But _ \--”

Afritan tries to calm his haggard breathing. His gaze searches for Moldark instinctively; if he could only see him, it'd be alright. Yesterday night's warmth would come flooding back, and he'd be  _ fine.  _ There, near the blacksmith's anvil, closer than expected, Afritan straightens up, caresses the outskirts of Verdant Brink with his knuckles until they end at the tabletop.

“Perhaps,” Oprez begins, rubbing his chin. “We could use the helicopters as a decoy while we have agents on the ground transport the supplies.”

Moldark remains stone-faced, arms crossed over his chest, head tipped back to avoid the glare of the sun peeking through the canopy. Tatule's got an arm slung over his shoulder. The bright-eyed sylvari thief's there too, laughing and poking Moldark's biceps every once in a while. They're probably teasing him about last night. Afritan frets in place, mortified they might've been too loud, and the conversation between the two Whisper agents goes way over his head as he worries about the hickey Moldark left him, and reflexively he touches a hand to his neck--

“An ambush would be better, hit those frog bastards and earn some party favors with the Itzel…”

Their gazes meet. Moldark tips his head sideways, like a cat observing prey, then smiles at him, nothing more than a curl of the lips. Private.  Afritan breathes out, allows his hands to fall by his sides. A smile blossoms on his mouth, unwittingly. He feels unraveled; the elder dragon's maw might not have snapped shut yet, but its call is less oppressive. He forms the word 'no’ under his breath. Like Moldark would.  _ No _ , Afritan thinks forcefully,  _ no no no _ .

“Magister?” Oprez calls, shy of touching him to get his attention.

He hums, ducks his head away from Moldark's eyes, heat skidding over the back of his neck. “You, uh, you were saying?”

“About the mission,” Qweorth rumbles, standing upright, her horns almost scraping the curtained ceiling of the tent. Her robes flare around her hind legs. She points somewhere between the center and the left corner of the map. “Would the terrain allow a coordinated aerial and ground-based assault there?”

Oprez elaborates, “We were thinking of combining forces to clear the way, while a small team would run the supply drop. Possibly spearheading into the Auric Basin…” He trails of, smiling professionally. Then asks, “Didn't you and the Vigil warmaster want to go there as well?”

Afritan tucks a tangle of hair between his ear and after another quick glance at Moldark, he answers brightly, “Yeah, we'd like to help the Pact efforts there too. Uhm _._ _Together,_ we'd want to go together.”

“Let's make that happen then,” Lightbringer Qweorth mutters, nudging him to pay attention to the map.

.


End file.
